


The Artist above and the Revolutionnary below

by WilwyWaylan



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Grantaire is a bit of an idiot so nothing new, M/M, Modern AU, a mention of drinking too much but nothing flagrant, and mentions of depression, lots of fluff, no one is drunk, nothing too graphic but still, some harsh opinions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24080728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WilwyWaylan/pseuds/WilwyWaylan
Summary: Grantaire thought that he could finally open his windows and enjoy the spring breeze while he works, but something else is coming through the windows, and it's not the breeze, rather someone playing the guitar very, very badly. Will he tell him to shut up or... something else ?Written for the Same-Prompt Fic Challenge 2020 : "I didn't know you could do that"
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46
Collections: 2020 Same-Prompt Fic Challenge





	1. Hello There

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kujaku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kujaku/gifts).



Working with the windows open had always been one of Grantaire's greatest life pleasures. Sadly for him, winter existed, and regularly put a damper on his plans by being cold, snowing, raining or wind-blowing, or a combination of those elements. But finally, finally, he was free of the clutches of a season that shouldn't have existed in the first place. Spring had taken its time, but it had finally arrived, bringing with it the delicious, warm weather that Grantaire adored. So as soon as he got up to sit at his easel (around 3 PM), he opened the windows and let the soft breeze caress his face. It was gentle, carrying with it the smell of the wisteria flowers on the balcony on the first floor and the chirping of the starlings starting to nest in the trees. 

And something else that certainly wasn't the smell of wisteria or the starlings chirping. It sounded a bit like a guitar, if the strings had been plucked by someone with forks glued to their fingers. Maybe a bird was trying to get the strings to use them in its nest. Or that guitar knew a secret and someone was trying to get it to confess. Or something had fallen into the opening and the poor thing was desperately trying to get out of there by grabbing the strings. To say that Grantaire didn't really appreciate the thing that was resonating under his window and couldn't really be called music would have been the understatement of the year. And still... If someone closed his eyes, put his hands on his ears, and felt very, very generous, it could almost be mistaken as a melody, that, with a bit of concentration (and leniency), had a passing resemblance to... Wonderwall ?

Grantaire smiled. Talk about a cliché that someone sitting on their balcony during a warm day of spring would learn to play Wonderwall, if that was what they were doing. He went to his window, leaning out as much as he could to try and see the person playing. But the large windows of his flat, if they were perfect to give him some much-needed light, were a bit too set back to allow him to look at the player. By leaning on the ledge in a very dangerous fashion, he could barely see a pair of shoes, the cuffs of some jeans, and the headstock of the guitar, and nothing more. Not even a finger. Just a pair of old, battered, red Converse, pants rolled up at least twice, and a run-of-the-mill guitar. 

To say that Grantaire's curiosity was piqued would be the understatement of the year. Okay, maybe it was due to his weird hours (that he decided on himself), but he wasn't very familiar with his neighbours. He knew the old Mrs. Magloire, he sometimes went grocery shopping for her, and she liked to pinch his cheek and call him a cute boy. Grantaire always refrained to ask her if she needed her glasses checked, and accepted the compliment with a smile. There was Mr Garrel, who put his awful music way too loud just when Grantaire wanted to sleep, and was always glaring at him like he was guilty of.. something. And of course, Eponine, who was living in the studio at the end of the hallway. Half of the time anyway. Other half, she was here, sprawled on his couch and criticizing everything he was doing. All in good fun, of course. He should ask her next time she'd drop by with a bottle of cheap wine and one of her awful DVD. She wasn't that better acquainted with the tenants of their building, but she held some sweet blackmail material. Maybe she'd know something about the mysterious guitar player.

Who was still butchering Wonderwall. Of course they had to choose a favorite of Grantaire’s for that. They couldn't decide on some Taylor Swift or something. Grantaire could have closed the windows of course, but it was such a pretty day.... And from his point of view, he had been patient enough. Now it was time to do what he knew best : give unsolicited comments. So he leaned on the windowsill as far as he could (he could still only see the shoes, bobbing with the non-existent rhythm) and yelled :

\- I've played a lot of guitar in my youth, but I didn't know you could make that kind of noise. That's impressive, in a way.

The playing stopped. The feet moved, and for a second, Grantaire thought that the player would bend over the railing to look at him and insult him or something, but no. After a few seconds, probably spent weighing some options, the music resumed. Okay, no amelioration on this front. And he couldn't just let it go, he had work to do, and he couldn't concentrate with that noise. So he tried again :

\- No, seriously. You should relax your fingers. And your shoulders too.

The music stopped again. And this time, he got an answer.

\- How can you say that ?

Oh, so the person on the balcony sounded like a boy. Probably around Grantaire's age. Interesting. But they were probably waiting for an answer.

\- Because I know. That's a basic mistake.

A small silence. The other (man ? boy ?) was probably mulling over his words. Or think about sending him packing, with his unsolicited advice. But no, after a few seconds, Grantaire got an answer.

\- You play the guitar ? 

\- I did.

The man seemed to dwell on the past tense for a second, then the playing resumed. It was still disjointed, but sounded a little less like someone had stepped on a small creature. Still kinda disrupting, but way less. Grantaire sat back in front of his easel, and was pleased to see that his inspiration had come back. He went back to his painting, humming along the broken melody. From time to time, he threw an advice over the ledge, about fingers on the fret or to use the fifth cord more, but the mysterious man didn't answer anymore.

~*~

When Grantaire opened his window the next day, he was welcomed by the same clumsy playing. This modern troubadour wasn't very talented, but he sure was determined. That was a quality one could admire, even Grantaire who was careful not to be too engaged about anything. Sure, he could have chosen another song, because as much as one could like a song, there was a thing as too much Wonderwall. Two more days of this, and Grantaire could never hear that song again. And still, he didn't ask the mysterious man to stop, nicely or otherwise. He mixed his colors, spread them on his palette, and set himself to work. Soon, he was lost in his little world.

He was trying to stretch his neck a little without dropping his green on his lap, when a voice rang from downstairs.

\- My fingers hurt, it whined.

It took Grantaire two seconds to realize that it was the mysterious man talking, and he was talking to him. He laid on the windowsill again and glanced down at the red Converse. 

\- It's normal.

\- Normal ? came the scandalized answer.

\- Yeah. You have to build some callus to play. 

\- But how ?

\- By playing.

The man seemed to mull over it.

\- Isn't there another way ?

\- Sadly, no. 

Another silence.

\- Oh. Well. Thank you.

And the mysterious player went back to his guitar. Grantaire waited for another remark thrown his way, but as nothing else came, he went back to his painting. But he kept his windows open. One never knew…

  
~*~

It dawned on Grantaire the next day, as he was lugging his grocery shopping through the hall, that he didn't know the name of his mysterious neighbour. He didn't know the name of almost anyone in the building, but it had never bothered him until now. Taking advantage of a break before tackling the five stories with several pounds of fruits and a giant bottle of liquid soap, he took a look at the letterboxes. A helpful hand had written the flat numbers under the names, and it only took him three minutes of mental gymnastics to find the right one. If he had expected a first name, he was disappointed. Not even an initial, just a name, stern and direct. Enjolras. Grantaire let the name roll on his tongue like a fine wine. Enjolras. Ange.... Enjôler.... so many pretty words contained in that name. Surely, such a pretty name could only belong to a pretty face.

Grantaire tried to picture it as he started climbing the stairs. Maybe... maybe he would be dorky, at least a little. Someone who tried to learn guitar without any method could only be a dork. He'd probably wear glasses. And a nice buttoned-up shirt, with a pen in the pocket. He was trying to decide on a haircut (neatly parted in the center, or "hasn't seen a comb in three days" ?) when he was almost knocked back down the stairs, sending him on his ass, his oranges bouncing all around him, happily rolling down the stairs to their freedom. He started swearing, rubbing at his sore parts, but his voice caught in his throat when he looked up. 

The person who had knocked him down had caught the railing to keep their balance and was standing above him, blocking part of the light. With his hair in wild curls surrounding his head like a golden halo, eyes as blue as the sky, and a face, a face... a face that Grantaire would have liked to paint, carve in marble or in fine china, with high cheekbones and a nose.... a piece of art, really. It lasted only a second before the man found his balance again, almost stepping on Grantaire's foot. He muttered an apology, gathered two oranges that he hastily deposited on Grantaire's legs, then jumped over him and skipped the rest of the stairs, scattering the other fruits in his haste to get out.

Grantaire simply sat on the floor, trying to process what had happened in the last thirty seconds. Did he really get knocked down by a vengeful angel stepped down from his pedestal in a flurry of righteous fury ? Did he suddenly get high in the fumes of his.... canvas bag in the five seconds it took him to go from the letterboxes to the stairs ? Did it really happen ? Granted, he just had to look at his groceries still lying all around him to know that, yes, it did happen, he didn't just imagine it. Besides, why would he imagine such a fine man living in a building like... well, like this ? He carefully side-stepped all the answers such a question could elect, gathered all his groceries and carried them to his flat, still carefully not thinking about what had just happened, nor his trembling hands, nor the look of beautiful blue eyes or the bounce of golden hair.

Once every orange had found its rightful place, Grantaire decided to go knock on Eponine's door. Maybe she could help. Or just listen to him as he sprawled on her couch and babbled about beautiful boys and boys playing guitars and whatnot. She would probably make fun of him, but that was how it went between them. He had done the same when she had come to him about Pontmercy, and she had been merciless during his last three crushes. And that's exactly what he needed, some kind of reality check. 

He waited almost five minutes on the doormat before she deigned open the door. 

\- I hope you have a good reason to come here, she said. 

\- Are you busy, perchance ?

\- Do you know what hour it is ? 

Grantaire gave her his best impression of a goldfish. 

\- It's "Top Chef" time. You know what that means.

\- It means that I'm very flattered that you interrupted your delicacy time for me ? Grantaire tried with his best smile.

\- It's the commercial break. You have one minute left.

\- But I come to you bearer of lamentations about boys and what could be the start of a crush. And a bottle of vodka, he added, brandishing his treasure. 

She considered him, then the bottle. Finally, she moved aside to let him in. He grabbed two glasses in the kitchen and went to sit with her, almost falling over the shoes scattered here and there. He handed her a glass and kept his in his hand, swishing the liquid around as he waited for the episode to end, his thoughts still spiraling wildly in his mind. 

When the credits rolled, Eponine turned to him.

\- Better ? she asked?

Grantaire shook his head.

\- Drink.

He obeyed. The alcohol burned down his throat, without easing his inner turmoil in the least. 

\- Better ? she asked again.

Shook again.

\- Tell me anyway.

But what to tell ? That an angel was living in their building ? That there was a boy playing the guitar and Grantaire found it very cute, the way he was going at it ? That this boy seemed nice, but Grantaire could only cling to a nice voice and a pair of red converse ? All this and even more, it seems, because when he finally stopped rambling, the TV, now on mute, was halfway through a stupid game show. 

Eponine poured him a second glass of vodka. 

Eponine poured him a third glass of vodka. 

\- So, she mused, admiring her own glass. What you're telling me is that you just developed two crushes.

\- I didn't develop any crushes on anyone, Grantaire defended himself, but he had to admit he hadn't really made a case for himself.

\- If those are not crushes, then I'm the Pope. And do not try any of your "hello your Holiness" jokes. Thanks.

Grantaire made a face.

\- I don't really have crushes. The one with the guitar, I don't even know what he looks like.

\- So what ? Do you need it ?

\- It helps. Not about what you think, get your mind out of the gutter, woman. (Eponine just raised one eyebrow). But for me, he's just an awful song, a nice voice and a pair of shoes. Not really husband material. 

\- But there's the other one. The angel, she reminded him.

\- Oh... yes. He's... oh he's gorgeous. You should have seen him. It was like... getting a small glimpse of what Heaven could be. Do you understand ? An angel looked at me. I may never be the same again. I had the proof, after all these years, that there is a Heaven. And if there's a Heaven, there's a Hell too, and it's a terrifying idea, because it instills in me a fear of whatever is awaiting for me when I'll leave this sinful Earth. Whether I end up in Hell, where I'll be subjected to endless torments, or in Heaven, surrounded by creatures of such beauty. Whatever I'm doing, I'll be damned. 

Eponine looked at him above the rim of her glass.

\- All this in just a face ?

\- Had you been there, you wouldn't talk about "just a face". "Just a face" is for the ones we meet in the street, the mere mortals like us. His is not "just a face", it's a masterpiece, it's a piece of marble molded by the hand of an artist, it's the Sun having taken a human form. 

\- The Sun ? really ?

\- The Sun, and since I've dared lay my eyes upon his form, I am forever burned. Never again will I be able to see, I've been blinded by his radiance ! 

\- Okay but what do you want me to do ? Buy you a pair of sunglasses ? Be your guiding dog ? And be careful of your answer. 

\- Do you know of a young, beautiful god living under our roof ? 

Eponine mulled over it for a few seconds.

\- I do not know of any blonde in the building, young and pretty or not. 

\- Alas ! My only option is to let myself waste away, forever separated from my love, sadly gazing at the sun in the hope of him stepping down one of its rays, straight to my atelier and heart !

This time, Eponine whacked him around the head with a cushion. 

\- Can you be even more dramatic ?

\- I can, but you certainly wouldn't like it. 

They watched the images move soundlessly on the screen for a few moments. 

\- I can try to find some information, Eponine finally offered. I'll see what I can gather.

\- You're a true friend, and you know it. 

\- You owe me at least a pair of Louboutin for that.

\- I'll buy you the most amazing bottle of champagne I can find.

\- Deal.

~*~

  
Grantaire was starting to be very familiar with the way his brain worked. He had been directly exposed to a god among mortals, it was only a matter of time before it became too much for him and he started trying to alleviate the shivers running under his skin, the heart beating in an odd way, the agitation, in the only way he knew (beside screaming it on the rooftops). But this time, the disease seemed to progress really, really fast. Just the next day, he sat at his easel, grabbed a paintbrush, dipped it in paint... and nothing happened. His hand didn't move, not an inch, and the tip of the brush hovered above the painting without putting any paint on the canvas. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how he tried to set himself to work, he just couldn't move. That painting was due next week, or he would fail his exam, and he just couldn't do it. 

After five minutes, he had to face the facts : he wasn't going to get any work done today, not until he got a bit of that obsession out first. He carefully put his painting aside, picked up his sketchbook, his pencil. He barely put the tip on the paper, that it started to, tracing ample lines on the white surface. Grantaire just let his hand move, seemingly on its own accord, let his mind wander as a lone figure slowly emerged. A man, standing alone, an arm raised, long hair cascading around him, a long sheet draped around his frame. Nothing fancy, it was the poster child for a study on how to draw folds. He would never show something so classical to his teachers, but for something he intended to hide somewhere he'd never look again (his sock drawer seemed like a very good place), it was pretty good. He couldn't yet exactly express the radiance, the warmth, the feeling he had gotten looking into those beautiful eyes, but that was only the first of a long series. He knew it. There was no hope in fighting it. He was done ; better enjoy the ride as he could until it finally faded away, and went with the other on a shelf far away in his mind.

~*~

But the ride lasted. Every day, when he got up and sat at his easel, the beautiful face appeared under his pencil. From the front, from the side, in close-ups or full-length, dressed in full XIXe century outfits, formal jackets or tight pants, studies of his eyes, his hair, .... The drawings were piling up in a drawer, or rather drawers since the first had been filled very, very fast. But he couldn't stop himself. He needed to. His hand itched to trace this beautiful face once again, form the delicate lashes, the curve of his eye or the bow of his mouth. And so he did, again and again. 

But of course, it didn't help. No matter how many times he drew the man, his face didn't leave his mind. When he was cooking, when he was cleaning, sorting his socks, watching trash TV, ... Always, the scene replayed in a corner of his mind. Had he known these five seconds would play an endless loop for his sole benefit... he wouldn't have changed a thing, to enjoy that delicious torment once again, the delicious burn, the delicious feeling of yearning that kept him awake at night, tossing and turning for hours. 

Okay, maybe he would have changed one thing ; in the hundreds of times he had replayed the scene in his mind, he hadn't once stood there to gape at the vision ; always, he caught the angel in a way or another, swept him off his feet, or fell down at his, or at least found something smart to do. A conversation would engage, he would get the perfect stranger's name, seduce him in a few well-chosen sentences, enthrall him with his wit, a conversation would follow....

But always too soon, he would be reminded that no, he didn't get the perfect stranger's name, or even his attention past the bare minimum you allowed to someone you bumped into in the stairs. He had gone his merry way, getting out of Grantaire's life at the same time, never to be heard of again. Each time the thought came to disturb his daydream, Grantaire did his best to push it out of his mind, but if he could ignore the truth, he couldn't as well push the sudden jolt of pain out of his chest, no matter how hard he tried. He buried it under work, drawing the stranger's face and, he was a bit ashamed, drinking a bit more than usual, but it was only a brief respite. 

But still, through this ordeal, there was one thing that was able to pull his mind from that never-ending daydreaming state. Every day, rain or sun, as he opened his windows, he had been welcomed by the clumsy guitar playing from the mysterious boy. Enjolras, if that was his name, was very conscious with his practice, and to Grantaire's delight (and relief), he had started to get better. Still not very good, but at least it wasn't grating anymore. 

They had exchanged a few words here and there, mainly Grantaire throwing advice out the window, and the boy answering, sometimes in jest. He had a clear voice, and some wit that wasn't unpleasant. He hadn't really struck a conversation with Grantaire yet, but he seemed to appreciate his presence none-the-less. At least that's what Grantaire wanted to think. Maybe the playing softening when they talked was just wishful thinking, but that wasn't forbidden, now, wasn't it ?

It was during one of these afternoons, when he finally managed to get back to work after adding yet another sketch to his growing collection, that he decided to try and get a more consistent conversation with Enjolras, or whatever his name was. He laid on the windowsill as usual ; the red shoes were still bobbing in something that could be a rhythm. Good. 

\- Hey, he called.

There was a horribly discordant note, and the playing stopped. Enjolras muttered something that probably wasn't very polite.

\- What ? he answered.

\- You've been working very hard at that song, and this is very impressive, but I was wondering... Is there a reason you want so much to learn it ? A favourite of yours, perhaps ? 

No answer.

\- Is it for an occasion, maybe ? he added.

\- Yes.

\- You want to serenade someone, maybe ? Because that may be an interesting choice for a serenade.

\- No ! 

The voice was indignant, and Grantaire couldn't help but snicker, silently, of course. 

\- So ? Why the urge ?

\- There'll be a protest soon, the boy answered after a few moments. We're protesting the closing of the community center downtown. THere's no real reason except that they don't want to waste money on poor people because they think they aren't cultured enough to understand, enjoy or benefit from arts programs. Those....

Grantaire rolled his eyes as hard as he could. Good, another bleeding-heart, well-meaning boy with stars in his eyes and a will to change the world. An idealist who hadn't yet seen that the world was full of assholes and injustice. But still, Grantaire couldn't think too badly of him. Without those programs, he'd never had discovered the fine arts, and he'd never chosen to study them. He couldn't really blame him to want to maintain them against all odds and assholes who didn't think about anything but their wallets and how to make them fatter. It was admirable, in a way. The world hadn't yet managed to bring him down. Maybe he hadn't yet met that many assholes. Or he was just too tough for them. Either way, good for him. But Grantaire couldn't really say so, not if he wanted to keep that fragile relationship going.

\- That's really cool, he said instead.

\- You think so ? 

The giddiness in the boy's voice made Grantaire's smile.

\- Yeah, it's good. Someone has to fight the good fight. 

It was silly, and Grantaire was starting to fear that the boy would hear that he wasn't that convinced. But luckily, it wasn't enough to damper his spirits. Or maybe the distance played in his favor. 

\- So, Grantaire asked, you want to play at the protest ?

\- We're all doing something... artistic, to show how important it is, and how uplifting and inspiring arts really are. 

\- And you picked the guitar.

\- Yes.

\- And you can't play.

\- No. But I'm going to learn it anyway.

\- I bet you will.

The playing resumed, and Grantaire went back to his painting, smiling, the guitar playing that started to sound like Wonderwall accompanying him in his work.


	2. Play with me

There was no music the next day, when Grantaire opened his windows. Weird, the weather was quite good, so it couldn't have been the rain chasing him inside. Maybe he just wasn't there today ? He certainly had a whole life beside trying to power through a song. Grantaire sat back at his easel, started working, trying to ignore his suddenly gloomy mood. He wasn't blind enough to wonder about the reasons of that sadness, of course. He'd become used to the music, discordant as it was, as a companion. He should have known that it wouldn't last forever, of course, but now that it wasn't ruining his eardrums anymore, he was almost missing it. 

Out of habit, he leaned on the windowsill to smoke and enjoy a bit of fresh air. There was a gentle breeze blowing through the trees, carrying the first fallen flowers with it. As Grantaire's gaze followed their slow dance, he suddenly noticed that there were shoes on the balcony. Red shoes, with feet in them. Ah, so the boy was here. But not playing. Grantaire bent as far as he could, and called :

\- Hey, down there ! Everything okay ? Did the cat eat your guitar or something ?

At first, there was only silence, and Grantaire thought that, maybe, he'd been mistaken and those shoes had been just abandoned there. But after several long seconds, they moved, and he got an answer :

\- I can't do it.

\- You can't ? Why ? You've been making progress, and...

\- I can't, the boy repeated. The protest is on saturday, and I still can barely play a few notes. 

\- It's still something, Grantaire offered.

\- I'm supposed to demonstrate that music is inspiring and something we must have in our lives. All I'm going to do, he said in a pitiful tone, is to comfort them in the idea that those programs need to be destroyed as soon as possible if the only thing they can create is that... horror.

Grantaire wanted nothing more than to jump on the lower balcony and give him a hug to get rid of the sadness in his voice. But he was no Tarzan, and maybe Enjolras would find it a little weird. So instead, he said, as casually as he could with his heart beating so hard :

\- Maybe I could help. You know, a little.

There was a new silence, louder, this time.

\- You could ? 

Did he really hear that note of hope in Enjolras' voice, or was it just his imagination ? He really, really hoped on the first. 

\- Yeah. I mean, I could give you some advice...

\- Can you ?

\- I just said...

\- No, I mean, right now.

Grantaire's heart did a somersault and stuck itself right in his throat, making it hard to swallow. He did his best to talk around that sudden lump :

\- Yeah, if you have the time, I can drop by. If it's okay with you.

\- I'm at number 32.

\- Okay, let me just find my shoes...

 _And my composure_ , Grantaire mentally added as he dove back inside. He rummaged for a moment through the mess on and around the couch. There was absolutely zero chance of finding his shoes here, but he needed a little time to calm down before he did something weird or too embarrassing. Once his heart was back to something tolerable, he went to the door where his shoes were patiently waiting for him.

The hallway outside seemed to stretch endlessly in front of him, perilous trek full of danger, and the two flights of stairs were made of cliffs a mere man could never pass. And still, the next second, he was standing in front of a door that looked exactly like his own, but with a shiny 32 exactly at its center, with no idea how he managed to cross the obstacles.

He barely had time to knock that the door opened, and something hit his legs, hard enough to make him stagger back and look down. It was a cat. A big, fluffy cat with white fur. It seemed as distraught as him by the sudden collision. Bending down swiftly, Grantaire grabbed it before it could run away, and hoisted it up in his arms. Luckily for him, the cat didn't seem too angry at being manhandled (cathandled) like this, and just kneaded at his sleeve. 

Grantaire turned to give the cat back to its rightful owner... and froze. Because in front of him, standing in the doorway, was the vengeful angel from the staircase. For the third time today, Grantaire's heart decided to do a little gymnastics. And then, the angel spoke :

\- Oh thank you, you caught him ! He's always trying to run away, and I'm always afraid that...

The angel was speaking in a very normal, non-angelic voice that Grantaire was very familiar with, given that it was Enjolras' voice.

Enjolras and the vengeful angel were one and the same.

He'd just been invited by the man he couldn't forget the face, to give him a guitar lesson because the beautiful angel he'd seen for five seconds and the dorky boy who was complaining about his fingers hurting were the same person. 

The man - the angel - Enjolras stepped forwards to get his cat back, and Grantaire noticed several things at once. One, he'd have to touch up his drawings a little ; he'd got the beautiful blue eyes and their long eyelashes perfectly right, as the soft oval of the face, and the small curls, and the lovely mouth.... But the nose was a little straighter than he had thought, and there was a little scar on his forehead, almost hidden under the curls. Two, that their respective places on the stairs had made Enjolras seem way taller than he was in reality. The top of his curls could barely tickle Grantaire's nose, and that's only if he were standing on his toes. Third, that maybe Grantaire needed to breathe if he wanted to be able to give that guitar lesson and not faint on the spot. So he handed the cat to his master, who immediately cradled him to his chest, and announced in a tone that he hoped was relaxed :

\- So, how about we take a look at this song ?

Enjolras nodded and led him inside. The flat was almost the same as Grantaire's, the only difference being the size of the living room and the balcony. There were high windows with that weird tilting part at the top, an open kitchen on the right, and a small hallway on the left, leading to the bedroom. It wasn't very messy, but it was covered in books. On the shelves lining the walls, piled on the coffee table, the couch, on the floor... It was a wonder there was still furniture, and Enjolras wasn't just living on books. 

The guitar was resting against the metal chairs on the balcony. Grantaire took it, sat on one of the chairs.

\- Do you have the sheet for that song ?

Enjolras looked at him like he suddenly grew a second head. 

\- A what ?

\- The notes, you know ?

\- Ah... no. I can't read music.

\- So you were... playing by ear ? 

No wonder it had sounded so weird. Grantaire refrained from making any semblance of a biting remark that would have gotten his ass kicked. Instead, he put his fingers on the fret :

\- Okay, look, you put your fingers here, and here....

~*~

After four hours of efforts only interrupted by some coffee (Enjolras owned a wonderful coffee machine that looked a bit like a spaceship, and made very good of it), Enjolras was finally able to get something out of the guitar that almost sounded like Wonderwall. He'd still need a lot of practice, sure, but he was on the right track to be ready for Saturday with all the notes he took on Grantaire's advice. 

Grantaire got up, his back and neck cracking after so much immobility. He would have liked to stay like this for a few hours more, sitting on that balcony with Enjolras beside him, close enough so he could feel the warmth of his arm brushing against him, his eyes on him, watching his every move... But he had to leave. Enjolras had a life beside him, it was starting to get cold, he was tired, and he was getting too close of saying or doing something extremely stupid. Too much exposure to such a pretty boy, probably. He didn't want to break the fragile link that had formed between them by doing something perfectly idiotic, rude or a combination of both. It was time to gracefully leave. Which he did, assuring Enjolras that it would be alright and he'd do a perfect job during the rally. 

As soon as the door closed, Grantaire made a beeline to Eponine's door and banged on it until she opened. He didn't even give her any time to protest, just dove in, flopped on the couch, buried his head in his hands and started whining. Eponine came to sit beside him, pushing his feet (and almost the whole of him) off the couch.

\- What's wrong with you ?

\- He is... oh, he is... The Sun, the Moon and all the Stars, he's just.... oh, he's....

Props to Eponine who managed to piece together what he was talking about. Okay, it was pretty clear to anyone whose brain hadn't turned to mush, but still. 

\- Which one ? The Angel ? Or the musical one ?

Grantaire moved a hand to look at her.

\- They're the same.

Eponine just nodded.

\- Only you can get a crush on two different people who happen to be exactly the same. So, how did you discover that you're an idiot ?

Grantaire summed up the events of the afternoon, trying not to sound too gidy despite the shivers still running up and down his arms. He didn't gush too much, at least he hoped. 

\- So, let me get this straight : you fall in love...

\- I did not.

\- Did too. You fall in love with a pretty guy you don't know the name of and only saw for five seconds in the staircase, and you also fall in love or whatever with the downstairs neighbour because he plays the guitar like I play the bagpipes.

\- I'm sure you play divinely.

\- Shut up. So he calls you to his help, you of course drop everything to go - and you did, don't even try to deny it - and then you realize that he's your dream angel. And then, instead of ravishing him, you spend four hours playing guitar with him. Did I get that right ?

\- More or less. But I wasn't going to jump on him right now. Imagine he doesn't like men ? What if he prefers women ?

His stomach knotted itself at the thought. He hadn't even thought of it. Gay and bi men weren't exactly a dime a dozen, so what was the chance of another one living in his building, especially in his age range and exactly to his tastes ? Not very high. Not high at all. The fact that Enjolras was tiny and adorable didn't automatically mean that he prefered men. Which he, of course, told Eponine. 

\- You know, she said, there aren't many ways to be sure.

\- I am certainly not going to knock on his door and kiss him senseless.

\- Too bad. I'd love to see if he's able to punch you. 

Grantaire made a face that she ignored.

\- So if you're not going to kiss you or something, what are you going to do ?

\- I don't know. Sigh and waste away, probably ? 

\- You're an idiot.

\- And you're so nice.

They bickered for a few minutes, trying to push each other from the couch. Eponine put an end to it by smacking him on the head with a pillow. 

\- If I find a way to put you and Angel-Ass...

\- Enjolras.

\- Angel-Ass in a romantic mood with the possibility of kiss, what will you give me ?

\- I'll give you the world and everything in it. Or more pragmatically, I'll be your slave forever. Which means a week. And I'll buy you the boots of your dreams and your choice, no restrictions.

\- Careful with what you say.

She got up and went to the door, to Grantaire's surprise. By the time he'd gotten up and followed, she was already knocking at door 32, too late for him to stop her. He hid behind the railing to better listen.

\- Yes ?

Enjolras' voice gave him goosebumps, and he mentally kicked himself. Come on, he had just left him ! He couldn't just be that affected by a voice ! And still, yes, he could, so much that he had to pinch himself to get back to reality and listen to what Eponine was saying.

\- I'm having a party on Saturday night.

\- I don't mind the noise, came the immediate answer. 

\- It's not about the noise. R seems to like you, and you're invited.

\- R ?

The question hit Grantaire with the force of a punch from Bahorel. During all their exchanges, he hadn't thought, even just one second, to introduce himself. Of course, first he had just thrown comments into the void, and then it would have been too awkward. Also he just didn't think of it. 

\- Your neighbour. Tall, looks like something the cat dragged in, very dorky, black hair ?

Grantaire promised himself that he'd find a way to avenge his honor. But the description seemed to click, because he could hear the smile in Enjolras' voice.

\- Is that... is he called R ? 

\- He'll introduce himself. Saturday evening. Bring something to drink if you want. 

_please say yes, please say yes_ , he thought. He even crossed all the fingers he could to add to the effect.

\- So ? Eponine insisted, will you come ?

\- I have a rally on Saturday evening, and we may celebrate with my friends, but I'll try to make it.

\- Cool. See you then.

The door slammed, and Grantaire heard Eponine climb the stairs.

\- I know you're hiding up there, you idiot.

No need to hide himself. Grantaire got up.

\- So, aren't you glad ? Blondie will be there on Saturday, and you can flirt with him as you want. You're going to flirt, she adds before he could protest. 

\- And you call this a romantic meeting ?

\- Just trust me for once, you animal. 

They retreated to the couch again. As she unearthed the remote from the cushions, Eponine asked.

\- Are you going to that rally ?

\- Of course not. What would I do there ?

Eponine just snickered, and launched one of the millions cooking videos she had recorded, leaving him all the time in the world to replay the afternoon in his mind in peace.

~*~

 _What am I doing here ?_ Grantaire thought for the umptenth time, tapping his feet on the ground to get them warm. The weather had taken a turn for the rainy and chilly, and it wasn't very enjoyable, standing like this without moving. He wasn't a fan of big crowds, at least not that kind. Not that the people here looked dangerous, or aggressive, but there was something in the air, something... electric, that seemed to run through the crowd. It felt like an anticipation, an expectation. Like something was going to happen, but he wasn't sure it was going to be a good thing. Oh well, he was there, after all. He could spare a few moments. Out of simple curiosity, nothing else.  
Par pure curiosité, bien sûr.

After ten minutes, something finally happened. A tall man with glasses climbed on the stage and started talking about the reasons for the rally. Nothing that Grantaire hadn’t heard from Enjolras already, and he half-listened while scanning the crowd to see if he recognized someone. He thought he had seen some of his friends on the other side of the place. But before he could move, the guy with the glasses announced the first manifestant. And Enjolras stepped on the stage. He looked taller, up there, and more impressive, clad in a pair of jeans that didn't leave much to the imagination and a shirt with a slogan that Grantaire couldn't read from there. He grabbed the mic stand and started talking. 

And how he talked. If Grantaire had been attracted by his voice beforehand, he was now mesmerized. Not by his words ; the arguments had been carefully constructed, crafted, even, each word had obviously been weighted to get a maximum effect, but nothing Grantaire couldn't poke a few holes in if given enough time. But the way Enjolras talked... the passion, the fury, the conviction in his voice... He was fire, he was burning, so hard and so brightly that the sun even looked paler next to him. He was talking, arguing, convincing, and Grantaire could feel the warmth, the energy, from where he was standing. He himself felt braver, stronger, as if a bit of Enjolras' strength was passing through his words. 

Enjolras finally stopped, and Grantaire released the breath he had been holding. But the blond boy, apparently thinking that he hadn't shaken Grantaire enough, grabbed his guitar. He sat on the chair chair that his friend brought out, and started playing. It wasn't perfect, but it was miles above where he'd been a week ago. He'd been working very hard, and Grantaire felt a little proud of them both.

And then he started singing. 

It was too much for Grantaire. The fire, the passion, and not this, the soft voice, almost lulling, and his smile.... No, he couldn't handle this. He was only human, and this was too much for him to handle. He retreated to the edge of the square, then turned heels and all but ran away. But no matter how fast he ran, the song was still bouncing in his head, and the smile when he started playing. Oh yes. He was fully and thoroughly fucked.

~*~

By the time Eponine's party rolled by, Grantaire had mostly recovered. He still felt a little feverish each time his mind started to wander in the direction of the events of the afternoon, but he could play the part of the guy cool enough to casually go to a party and spend some good time with friends and acquaintances. 

When he knocked on Eponine's door, the party had already started, judging by the music pouring by the keyhole (or at least it seemed) at a volume that defeated the purpose of knocking. So he let himself in. After all, he was a friend of the house, wasn't he ? He almost lived here. He stepped into the living room bathed in a soft glow, where half a dozen people were trying to fit on the couch without falling over, things made difficult with Montparnasse who absolutely refused to squeeze himself against the armrest in fear of creasing his coat. Grantaire made a beeline to the table where the bottles had been gathered, put his own among them, then filled himself a glass that he emptied in one go. Armed with a second, he turned to the room, ready to face the crowd. Mingling in during a party had never been a problem for him, and soon, he was caught in a conversation, happy as a clam. 

He was on his third glass and caught in a conversation about the latest modern art exhibition he'd seen, when a new group of people near the door drew his attention. Or rather, the very interesting color choice of one of the newcomers. There were very few people in the whole town who dared to sport such a garish pink, and only one who'd wear that much of it, especially with a very low collar to show off his chest. Grantaire made his way to the door to greet him. He noticed that Bahorel hadn't come alone ; his friend, a tall, lanky redhead, abandoned him immediately to go and talk with Montparnasse. Very interesting information that he'd need to think about later. 

\- Bahorel ! Grantaire screamed above the music. Fancy meeting you hear !

\- What can I say, when there's an opportunity to drink and have fun, I'm always ready. Nothing better than a party after a fight !

Now that he looked closer, Bahorel had several cuts that had barely stopped bleeding, and there was a bandage wrapped around his wrist. 

\- Why am I surprised ? Grantaire asked. A day when you got into a fight ? Must be a day ending in -day. 

\- Not my fault... this time ! We were nicely minding our own business, having our rally like well-mannered people (Grantaire snickered) and suddenly, a bunch of idiots decided to storm the stage, push everyone down, scream slurs, the whole nine yards. And you know how it goes : things escalate, someone throws the first punch...

\- That someone being you, I bet ?

\- Not me, in fact.

Bahorel stepped aside, to reveal Enjolras standing just beside him and currently talking with another man with curly hair. Both guys looked battered, Enjolras sporting an impressive black eye, and his lip had been split. Grantaire refrained from running to him and doing something stupid, just nodded in what he hoped was a relaxed way. 

\- So your blond friend threw the first punch.

\- Yeah ! And then it became something like the Third World War or something. Everybody started fighting, kicking, punching, it was wild ! And then of course, the police decided to step in, so a few of our opponents sided with them to hit us, and some sided with us to fight them... It was really truly epic.

\- And you didn't get arrested ?

Bahorel looked offended by the question.

\- How dare you imply that I'm not swift enough to leave and smart enough to know when to do so ! We missed the haul, barely, and ran home. 

\- All of you ?

\- All of us ! It's the first time none of us got arrested. This deserves a celebration !

Bahorel grabbed Grantaire by the shoulders and dragged him back to the drinks, to Grantaire's utter despair. But he went with him, because pretty boy or not, Bahorel was his good friend, and if he wanted to celebrate with him, Grantaire wasn't going to deny him the joy. Still, he threw a look at Enjolras, and was very surprised when their eyes met. He waved at him, and was delighted when Enjolras waved back. He let himself be dragged, trying not to feel too giddy or to check again that the blond boy was looking at him. 

~*~

The party was well underway when Grantaire finally managed to untangle himself from all the social interactions he was caught in for a well-needed smoke break. He was stepping on Eponine's tiny balcony, when he realized that someone was already occupying the spot, leaning on the metal railing. Someone wearing a worn red hoodie, with long, blond, cascading hair pooling in the hood. Grantaire's heart rate doubled, and he almost fell backwards. But after several hours spent talking and drinking, he needed some cold air to clear his mind, a cigarette to calm his nerves, and get away from people and the music for a moment. And Enjolras had turned around when he'd heard the window open, and he was now looking at him. If he backed down, God only could know how he'd fix the situation. 

So he walked to the railing too, cigarette in hand, praying all the deities he could that Enjolras wouldn't start obnoxiously coughing to show his displeasure or ask him to put it out. But no, the other boy just looked at him. Grantaire lit his cigarette. Immediately, the sweet feeling filled his lungs. Elbows on the railing, he blowed a long puff of smoke towards the starry sky. 

\- Can I ?

Grantaire turned to face Enjolras, who was holding another cigarette. 

\- You smoke ?

\- Don't I look the type ?

Grantaire refrained from answering, not wanting to aggravate him now. He motioned him closer to light his cigarette with his own. Suddenly, Enjolras was close to him, so close, that Grantaire could almost feel the warmth from his hair. The spark between them grew a little brighter, sending small shards of light on Enjolras' cheekbones, lighting gold sparks in his hair. Grantaire wanted nothing more than to touch him, right now, stroke his smooth skin, wrap those beautiful curls around his fingers, again and again.... but he simply drew back a little. Enjolras nodded in thanks, and they both resumed their stance, watching the smoke billow above us. 

It was... nice, just staying like that, their arms almost touching, in a lull only troubled by the muffled sound of the music behind them. Almost... intimate, in a way. But it was just a small moment in time, a bubble that could burst at every second. A cigarette didn't last long, and Enjolras would probably go back inside once he was done. Grantaire watched the small burning spot, knowing that it may be the only thing that still kept Enjolras beside him. He needed to do something, and quickly. But what ? He couldn't kiss him now, could he ? He'd probably earn himself a punch, and never see him again.

\- You were amazing, this afternoon, he blurted.

Good. Nothing embarrassing. Enjolras looked surprised.

\- You came ?

\- Yes ? I mean, I was curious about the song. And maybe your rally too, a little.

Enjolras smiled. He _smiled_ , and Grantaire couldn't help but smile back. 

\- You were very good, he repeated.

\- Wait, are you talking about....

\- Both. Seems that the practice really did you good. 

\- And the rest ? Enjolras asked, eagerly. 

\- Very interesting. A few weak points here and there, of course...

\- Weak points ? 

Enjolras was frowning. Not very good. But life couldn't just always be peaches, right ? And Grantaire was on a roll. 

\- Yes ? Some of your arguments - very well phrased, I must say - are a bit weak, and could be countered without too much effort. But for a speech, it was okay. Convincing enough. You need to aim for the feelings first, and that did the job.

Enjolras' expression was hard to read in the low light, and Grantaire hoped that the red on his cheeks wasn't due to anger. Oh fuck, it probably was. He was angry.

\- As if... he started, but Grantaire cut him.

\- No no, sorry. Please don't take it the wrong way. I'm not starting to pick a fight. Even if I am, usually. I mean, I love poking holes in arguments, it's my favourite sport, and not just because it's not physical. I love nothing more than a good argument. Not the kind where you throw the furniture down, of course. The one that allows us to find flaws in arguments. 

\- So what ? You just said that for my own good ? 

A beat

\- Maybe ? I mean, if you want to perfect them, I could help. Discuss them with you. Play around until there aren't any holes to poke at them. 

\- So you want to help me. Like this.

\- Yes ? I.... 

He sighed. This was quickly becoming a nightmare. He was going to wake up.

\- Listen. I'm not usually.... I can be kind of an asshole, but that wasn't my goal. You.... you asked for my advice. I could have lied, but... that's not how I work. But I didn't mean to sound like an ass. Or judging. Or.... this.

A few seconds flew by, during which Enjolras simply looked at him. Then, slowly, his brows relaxed. He didn't smile, not yet, but at least he didn't look like running inside anymore. 

\- Yes, I asked you. I....

He crossed his arms, almost nervously, and Grantaire wanted nothing more than to hug him right this instant. 

\- I may still have some trouble with criticism, he confessed. Especially coming from someone I don't know well. 

\- Maybe, Grantaire offered, I could drop by tomorrow or something, and discuss it with you ? This don't seem like a good moment for criticism, it's a party and... you look battered enough without me adding to the pile.

Enjolras gave a small chuckle.

\- You're right. Maybe that could be beneficial. I can't swear I'm not going to try to convince you, or not get angry, or...

\- Don't worry. I can handle it. In the meantime, maybe we should head inside ? Your friends are going to look for you.

\- They know where to find me.

Had he heard right? Yes he had. Enjolras settled back beside him. Grantaire did the same, without a word. He didn't trust his voice right now to speak. So he just stayed beside him, their arms brushing sometimes, enjoying his presence in the calm of the night. 

(inside, Eponine had wasted no time in gathering the different bets on whether or not the two would finally kiss before the end of the evening… )


	3. What goes up must go down

When he opened his windows next afternoon, Grantaire was met with silence. Of course. He should have expected it. The rally was over, and Enjolras didn't need to practice guitar anymore. Good, now he could focus on his work without any disturbances, and finally finish his assignement. Nothing but peace and quiet, at last.

Of course, he couldn't fool anyone, him least of all. He perfectly knew that he was going to miss the music, due to the pretty blond that was the source of it. But what could he do He'd missed the opportunity to record his playing and use it as background music. He should get down, ask Enjolras to start playing again, maybe offer to teach him another song, They could sit on the balcony again, on those ricketty metal chairs that squeaked each time they moved, Enjolras' head so close to his, the blond curls tickling his cheeks....

Grantaire shook his head, trying to get rid of the pictures that kept flashing in front of his eyes. No, he was not going to step down for such a flimsy excuse, he was going to stay here, sitting on his stool, working of his painting, and nothing else. This was going to be a great day for his workload ! He could do it, he could totally do it !

He'd barely gave the first stroke of his paintbrush on the canvas when a voice rang out :

\- R ? Are you.... are you there ? 

It was Enjolras' voice, coming from the window.

\- Are you there ? I can barely see your window open, so.... I think you're there ? Hello ?

Did he sound.... hopeful ? Impatient ? Grantaire really wanted to believe it. But he refrained his desire to run and throw himself at the window to see him faster. But defenestrating himself wouldn't really play in his plan of... what, in fact ? Sweeping Enjolras off his feet with his.... wit ? Presence ? Charm ? Something ? Or showing himself as the most stupid person in the whole building ? 

Once assured he wasn't gonna flail or do a little victory dance, Grantaire leaned on the stony sill. To his greatest joy, Enjolras was looking at him, craning his neck upwards. And he was smiling.

 _Smiling_.

At _him_.

Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he was still sleeping and having the best dream ever. He discreetly pinched himself, and refrained from grimacing under the pain. Either he was dreaming the pain, or it wasn't a dream at all. It was _real_. It still had the same effect on him. And he needed to answer something. 

\- Oh, hello Angel. What's bringing you to my humble home today ?

Enjolras looked puzzled for a second. 

\- Your... oh yes. 

\- So what can I do for you ?

\- Yesterday, you offered to discuss a few of my arguments with me. Do you still want to do it ?

\- Right now ?

\- If that's not a bother.

\- I'm already on my way !

Grantaire didn't even spare a glance to his still very white canvas with absolutly no trace of work, just jumped in his shoes, and sprinted out.

Enjolras was waiting for him at the door, his cat held against his chest. He quickly let Grantaire in and closed behind him before letting go of the cat. The small beast trotted to Grantaire's feet, started sniffing at his shoes, then went to lie on the couch with obvious contentment.

\- He seeems to like me, Grantaire remarked dryly.

\- You're lucky. Usually, Jude isn't that welcoming.

Grantaire refrained to ask what he considered as "hostile". 

\- You called him Jude ? he asked instead.

\- He likes the song. 

Enjolras handed him a cup of coffee that Grantaire hadn't even seen him take. Maybe it was magic. Maybe he could materialize cups of coffee out of thin air. What a glorious super power. Grantaire took a sip to stop the enldess loop of his thoughts. And it was perfectly made, with just enough sugar, exactly like he liked. Enjolras had memorized how he drank his coffee, and he needed not to read too deeply into it.

\- So, he asked, what did you need me for ? 

\- I have another rally...

\- Another ? 

\- Of course, another. And another after that. We still have a lot to do.

\- So you rally every week ?

\- No. We have other activities, beside rallys, but those are the most effective to.... well, rally people to our causes. 

\- And what are they ? Beside maintening educational programs ? 

\- Stopping the systematic destruction of our labor laws, creating and upholding protection laws for all LGBT people, a distinctive diminution of racist, sexist, classist, homophobic and transphobic actions, at personnal and professionnal levels, and....

Grantaire nodded along, his eyes widening at each addition to the already long list. He was vaguely wondering if Enjolras had a deep secret, like an army of clones doing his bidding, or the ability to bend time and space, or travel back in time, or something. There was no way for a mere human to do all this and maintain a lovely appearance, or even a normal one. And still, he could bet there was no clone hiding in the bedroom. Enjolras was just that kind of person who flourished best when he took care of others.

\- And what do you need my help with ? Grantaire asked when the list dwindled out.

\- I'm planning a speech on the new retirement laws. But it needs to be perfect, and....

\- I'm your man. Shoot. 

Enjolras went to gather a handful of papers. Covered on both sides, in tiny script. Very, _very_ tiny script. Grantaire rolled his eyes, trying not to show his distress. At least he got to stare at his vengeful angel while he walked back and forth, starting his speech. 

After two minutes, though, the words started muddling in his mind. There was emphase in there, fire, intensity. It didn't make everything, of course, but it made for the arguments with conviction. Enjolras was the kind of person who could sway a crowd by the sheer strength of his passion, bring them to the point of rioting just by his words, his presence, his fervor. But fervor could onlt get you so far, and Grantaire could feel his concentration slip away from his grasp, slowly, slowly... until all he could do was stare at Enjolras' beautiful face. His hands were starting to itch, he needed a pencil, something....He spotted one half buried between the cushions, grabbed it and the nearest paper, and started scribbling.

\- What are you doing ?

At the cold tone, Grantaire lifted his head. Enjolras was standing in front of him, hands on his hips. And frowning. Oh. Did he mess up, as usual ? Grantaire looked down at the half-formed drawing. Admitedly very nice, but he'd been totally zoning out, as he always did when drawing, and the past five minutes had been spent in a daze. Enjolras could have turned into the Victory of Samothrace or fly away by the window, he wouldn't have noticed. As he didn't notice that Enjolras has stopped talking, and was now glaring at him like he could set him on fire by the sheer force of his glare. Grantaire looked down, at the paper in his hands. It was quite good, he could tell, especially the eyes, and the curls on the forehead. Which didn't help at the moment.

\- Did you even listen to a word of what I said ?

\- You were talking about how unfair it was, that it's just a bandaid on a sucking chest wound and then....

\- And then ? Enjolras repeated.

\- And then.... something about statistics ? Maybe ?

\- You haven't listened to a word I said.

Grantaire was half-tempted to deny it, but there would be no use. Enjolras had noticed, and he couldn't answer any question about his speech anyway. He just shrugged it off, trying to play it cool. 

\- What ? Enjolras asked.

\- Your arguments aren't bad, but it's nothing I haven't heard yet. 

\- So I shouldn't bother, is that what you're thinking ? 

\- What makes you think they will listen, this time ? 

Enjolras opened his mouth to answer, but Grantaire didn't stop.

\- Because they won't, you know ? They absolutly don't care. They gave us a right to protest and a right to strike, but what good does it do ? Even when striking, there is still an obligation of minimal service, so the effect is lost. And the people you're bothering with the strike are not the people you want to reach.

\- They can still join our cause, that's the goal ! Getting many people to our side !

\- Do they ?

Enjolras glared at him, but didn't answer. Grantaire knew he should have stopped while he could still salvage something, but he couldn't, now that he'd started.

\- They don't, he went on. They protest, and if the strike goes on too long, or if they start thinking you're impeding on their freedom of... going anywhere, or anything. They are okay with people striking as long as they aren't inconvenienced. But once it starts having an effect on them, their reaction is not to join in your crusade, it's to start complaining that you're ruining life, and to band against you, against your strike, your movement. And that's exactly what all those officials, all those who pass those laws, are counting on. Why do you think they always vote on them just before a holiday ? They know people will only care as far as allowed by their next trip, or their Christmas shopping frenzy, or...You get the jist. Then, when they are stuck because of you, they'll turn on you like rabid dogs, and they'll metaphorically tear you to shreds. In the eye of the public, you'll become the annoying pest, the one that spoils their projects, their holidays, the one who doesn't care about anything except their own goals. They'll brand you a selfish prick, they pretend you're the one curbing progress and the well-being of society, and in the end, things will go exactly as planned, but with the added bonus of people now being mad at you, and reacting negatively to anything you may do next. And you're back to square minus one.

Enjolras' frown had deepened as he spoke, and he looked angrier by the second. Grantaire already regretted his outburst ; his usual diatribe against strikes wasn't fit for all ears, and certainly not for someone he had just met, had a gigantic crush on, and was very, very passionate about world-changing. But it was too late ; taking all back wouldn't do any good. He would look like a liar. At best. At worst, someone who liked to agitate others for the sheer fun of it. 

They stared silently at each other for an uncomfortably long time before Enjolras finally uncrossed his arms.

\- I think you'd better go. I'll manage.

He picked up his cat and carried him to the balcony, craddled to his chest. There was nothing to add, so Grantaire just obeyed his wish, and let himself out without a word. The door closed with a soft noise that resounded all through his body like a gunshot. He managed to stay standing, and somehow, made his way to Eponine's door. His luck finally decided to kick in, because she was just going home when he arrived, saving him the trouble of knocking. She took one good look at his face, grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him inside. He found himself laid down on the couch, wrapped in a gaudy plaid, with a cup of coffee in hand. Eponine didn't ask anything, and that was good, because he really didn't want to talk right now. All he wanted was to forget about everything for a while, and a Fear Factor marathon seemed to be the best option. Maybe tomorrow, all this would have disappeared. Just another bad dream swept under the rug. Tomorrow, it would be all right again. 

~*~

It didn't. The next day hadn't changed a thing. It became obvious to Grantaire even before he got out of bed. Yesterday's events were weighing on him, hanging above his head like a sword of Damocles, crushing every thought, every hope he could have had about the situation. It was awful, it was Hell, everything sucked, life wasn't worth anything today. He'd spoilt everything by opening his big mouth, as he always did. Why couldn't he have just nodded and shut up while Enjolras talked ? It wasn't as he hadn't any experience in this, his studies had made him an expert. Instead, he had taken that relationship, the fragile bond between Enjolras and him, this tiny thread that only wanted to grow, and he had stepped on it, crushed it under the weight of his stupidity. Real smooth, Grantaire. Really. When was he going to learn, and stop wasting everything ? Never, it seemed. He was way better here, under his comforter where he couldn't act like an ass, an idiot or any combination of the two, probably for the rest of his life. 

Two days went on like that, between the bed and the coffee maker, with a brief incursion to the tub for a warm bath where he just laid and stared at the ceiling. As he did when he was elsewhere in his flat. That's all he did during those two days, lie down and contemplate, mainly his errors, his failures and the dreadful stupidity that was sadly his. He hated being like that, it brought back memories of darker days not too long ago. He had thought those days being far away behind him, but it seemed that they always lurked near, ready to engulf him in the darkness at the slightest reason. He felt empty, and sad, and useless, and above all, stupid, unable to do anything good. Everything he touched, he wasted, in a way or another. Maybe he should stay there, and stop interacting with people ? Better for everyone, and better for him too. No contact meant no hope, and no way to dash those hopes. So he pulled the blankets over his head, ignored the furious blinking of his phone, and tried to forget about everything. 

He could have stayed like this for weeks, only getting up if he didn't have any other option, and retreating immediately after in his burrow, if not for Bahorel. Any other person, not seeing a friend for a week, would have called, or maybe knock on the door. But those considerations were way too low for someone as determined as Bahorel. No, Bahorel just materialized in his room one morning, a paper bag in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. Grantaire first thought of a hallucination caused by isolation, or maybe a night spent watching the worst conspirationist videos he could find, and just turned away. But hallucinations tended not to be able to grab and pull blankets, which that one just did. Bahorel sat on the mattress, pushing Grantaire's feet out of the way, pulled two cups out of seemingly nowhere, filled them with coffee and handed him one. Grantaire contemplated sending him away with a few chosen words, but finally, the smell of coffee and the sudden hunger at the sight of buttery croissants was the strongest. He sat up, pulling the covers back on his legs to keep his feet warm. 

\- What are you doing here ? he asked around a mouthful of crumbs.

\- I haven't seen you around since the party, so I was wondering if you were sick.

\- It's been only three days, you know. I could be busy.

\- Well, are you ?

Grantaire gave his messy bed a pointed look.

\- As you can see, he answered dryly. 

\- So, what's happening? Bahorel asked, refilling the cups.

\- What makes you think something has happened ? 

\- You've missed our boxing meeting. You never miss those, not even when you're at Death's door and almost coughing a lung.

\- I did that once, and you'll never let me forget it.

\- I'll never let you forget that I had to carry you home and Bossuet had to tie you to your bed because Joly almost got a panic attack just seeing the state you were in.

\- Good days, Grantaire sighed. 

\- If you wanna call them that... So, what's happening? 

\- You're not letting go, are you ?

\- Never. So ? What happened ? 

Grantaire carded a hand through his curls, grimacing when it got caught in the knots. That was going to be fun to untangle.... like the situation, his brain helpfully provided.

\- I've been an ass with Enjolras, that's all.

Bahorel didn't react at the mention of Enjolras. He'd probably witnessed their interactions during the party. He just grabbed another croissant and let him talk. Which Grantaire didn't really want to now, but once again, he was on a roll. The whole story jumped out of him like it was just waiting for an excuse. Bahorel nodded, not once interrupting.

\- So what do you plan to do ? he asked when Grantaire was done.

\- What do you mean, what do I plan to do ? Haven't you heard a word I said ?

\- I heard every word, even the ones you didn't say, which is quite a feat, if I must say. You've been an ass and said things you're not supposed to do especially on the one you have a crush on. And don't "I don't have a crush" me. It could be seen from space. 

\- And yet he...

\- He's kinda clumsy when it comes to feelings. He's really nice, and warm once you get to know him, and he'll go to the end of the world for his friends, but... Unless you're really blunt with him, he... not that he won't understand, but he won't assume anything. You need to tell him if you like him.

\- Thanks for your concern and advice, really, but I don't think they'll be of any help now. 

\- Why, because you opened your big mouth and stuck your feet in it ? 

\- Thank you a lot, really. It's making me feel much better. 

Bahorel ruffled his hair, not commenting on the difficulty of doing so.

\- Come on, it's not the end of the world. No, it's not. First, because a cute dude being mad at you isn’t the end of the world, or we wouldn't have made it past being bipedal. Second, because if you stop moping and start moving your ass, I'm sure you'll find a way to be forgiven.

\- He'll never forgive me.

\- If you stay here, sure, he won't. But maybe if you start with apologizing, he will.

Grantaire didn't feel particularly uplifted by the advice. Bahorel grabbed him by the shoulder and gave him a strong and somewhat clumsy one-armed hug. 

\- Come on. Use that big grey matter hidden in your cranial box. If you find something clever enough, he'll forgive you. 

Grantaire wanted to protest, tell him that it was no use and he'd better not waste some precious time he could use to get ready to become a hermit. But already, his mind was starting to reel. Maybe... yes, maybe he could devise a way out of it.

Seeing him in better dispositions, Bahorel clasped him on the shoulder, hard enough to sink him five centimeters in the mattress, and got up. 

\- Godspeed, my friend. And please keep me informed, you know I like nothing more than gossip.

\- It's only gossip when one is not part of it.

\- Then good for me, because I'm not small, blond and angry. Now, as much as I'd like to know what's running through your mind, I must go. I have a small redhead expecting me with breakfast.

Grantaire held out the paper bag, but Bahorel just shook his head. 

\- Keep it. It's good food for the brain.

He was leaving the room, when Grantaire called out.

\- Wait, how did you get in ? I didn't leave you my keys.

\- Do you think I need keys ? 

\- You _picked my lock_ ?

\- Spending time with Jehan and Montparnasse is really formative, you should try it.

\- I don't want to become jailbait like you.

Bahorel responded with fingers guns and let himself out, humming something that sounded like Jailhouse Rock. Grantaire barely heard the door close, his mind already working on the several steps his ambitious project would need.


	4. Resolution

Step one : wash self. It would do no good to present himself to Enjolras looking like some kind of cave troll. So Grantaire took a shower, taking great care to wash his hair and untangle the curls. Once mostly dry and dressed in clean clothes, he aimed for the kitchen. Not for the coffee, even if he started by making himself a nice cup, but for something far more ambitious : he was going to cook.

Four hours later, his kitchen was a mess, every horizontal surface was covered in flour and there was even some sticking to some vertical parts, the sink contained more dishes that he believed he owned, and he was in dire need of another shower. But there was a whole plate of cookies in the oven, and it smelled quite good. Not that Grantaire wanted to brag, of course. He didn't have any time for it, anyway, he was way too busy watching the biscuits by the small window. He didn't want...he couldn't mess them up. He didn't have the courage nor the ingredients to start again. 

But luckily for him, the cookies got out deliciously golden, and absolutely perfect. He transferred them into a metal box, resisting the urge to eat one himself. After a second shower that got rid of most of the flour, he went to sit at his easel. Now came the third, and most important part. Cookies were a nice touch, but he wouldn't be forgiven just with this, Bahorel's super secret recipe notwithstanding. No, he needed to find the perfect present that would melt Enjolras' anger like a cube of ice during summer. And nothing could be more of a perfect present than something handmade, or in his case, hand-drawn. 

The white page was almost intimidating, at first, more than during one of his assignments, even. Assignments, he could bullshit his way through them if inspiration didn't strike. But this.... this was way more important. Okay, no, maybe not. He couldn't claim a cute boy was more important than his studies. It was important in a different way, but he couldn't just pretend he knew what he was doing. He needed to know. He needed to make it perfect. 

The first strokes were hesitant, almost shy, barely scratching the surface. But as he went, the picture in his mind grew clearer, his gestures became more assured, and he started working faster. 

When he finally moved, the sun had set, his neck was sending jolts of pain up his skull, his fingers hurt, and his hoodie had lost all pretention to be an actual color. He stretched, sending his arms above his head, only realizing now that his stomach was growling. Probably loud enough to wake his neighbors up. But he didn't care. He felt well. The painting on his easel was probably one of his finest works since... oh, several years. Enjolras stood in the middle of it ; Grantaire had painted him dressed in a XIXe century style, with a red jacket with a cockade pinned on the lapel, a black cravat resting undone on a white shirt under a black waistcoat. There was a smudge of blood on the cheek, but he was brandishing a red flag above his head. The whole sky behind him was a brilliant whirlwind of pink, orange and yellow, and a timid sun was stroking Enjolras' face with gold rays. Any critic would have dismissed the piece as "overly pompous" and "pretentious", but Grantaire felt a mix of pride and anxiety watching it. It certainly was fine, but didn't he exaggerate, making Enjolras' face softer than it was ? Maybe his eyes weren't fierce enough, not full of fire enough ? And what if Enjolras didn't enjoy a portrait of himself ? Oh well, too late now, it was done. Tomorrow, he would make his move. But for now, he wanted nothing more than sleep. He made his way to his room, abandoning his clothes on the way, and dropped on the bed. The remnants of Bahorel's impromptu breakfast were still on the nightstand, and he devoured the rest of the croissants. Once sated, he wrapped himself in the blankets and just laid there, content and sated, for the first time in days. Maybe things were looking up, after all.

~*~

Next morning saw Grantaire up earlier than he'd been in months. He'd woken up almost with the sun, and had been since tossing and turning under the blankets, trying to keep himself busy until it was a decent time to put his plan in motion. He didn't know about Enjolras' sleeping habits, and didn't want to wake him up. That wouldn't put him in good dispositions. So he browsed the internet, trying to distract himself until it was time to move.

At around 10 AM, he decided to act. He rolled out of bed and got ready, going through the motions with application, concentrating on each gesture to ignore the way his heart seemed to try to get free from his chest. He took the box of cookies, the painting, and snuck out into the hallway. It was dark and deserted. Perfect. He went down the stairs, his socked feet silent on the tiles. Still no one. He managed to reach door 32 without a hitch, without any nosy neighbor opening their door to see who was playing spies in the hallway. He carefully put the painting down, put the box beside it, with a small message he'd spent at least fifteen minutes writing. Nothing fancy, just a heartfelt "I'm sorry I've been an ass". No need to start babbling on writing. Good. 

He rang the bell... and ran away, up the stairs, almost falling down and hitting the ramp in his hast. He had barely reached his story, when he heard a door open. There was a moment of silence. And a thought hit him right between the eyes : what if Enjolras decided to climb here to see who put the presents on his doorstep ? He'd see him crouching behind the railing like an idiot. He dashed inside his apartment, closed the door, then opened it a tiny sliver. No Enjolras materialized on the landing, but there was a rustling. Like things being picked up and carried inside. So he had found the presents. Very good. 

Grantaire retreated inside, pondering on the next move for a second. He could start working on his assignments again, clean a bit of his flat, maybe scrub his bathroom. Things would go back to how they were before all these guitar shenanigans. But that wasn't what he wanted, right ? So he needed to follow the plan.

He needed to rummage a little (a lot) through the mess accumulated under his bed and in his cupboard, but he finally unearthed an old, battered case. The guitar inside had lost a bit of its shine, but the intricate patterns on it, flowers and clouds, were still as vivid as always. He took it back to his window and sat as comfortably as possible. It was out of tune, of course, after so much time in storage, but the gestures came back to him easily, and soon, it was fit to play. He stroked the strings, just enjoying the sound for a few seconds, then started to warm up. The notes flew by the window, carried by the wind, soft and round at each vibration of the strings, climbing the scales up and down. His fingers were dancing, almost on their own, modulating the melody almost perfectly. 

Under him, a window opened. He didn't hear footsteps, but he imagined them all the same. Time to go to step five. Or six, he didn't remember. He abandoned the scales for real melody. Still no noise coming from under him. Oh well, he could still play for himself, couldn't he ? After all, he did like this song. And so, he started singing softly, almost under his breath.

_Lay down in the stars, my bonny lass_   
_Lay down in my arms, we'll make it last_   
_The senses aspire to this far greater time_   
_As the rivers flow your heart will be mine_

He played the song from start to finish, enjoying how easily it was all coming back to him, the lyrics and the melody, how delightful it was to play again. The last notes fled outside, fading slowly as the strings stopped singing. Grantaire leaned on the guitar, feeling the vibrations stop under his fingers. The silence after a song always had a special quality, soft and serene, like it was another part, something that completed the song. 

\- Are you there ?

Enjolras' voice cut the silence, made him jump so hard that he almost dropped the guitar. He did call for him. Enjolras wanted to talk to him ! _Do not ruin this, play it cool_. He walked to the window and leaned out. Enjolras was peering up at him, and Grantaire's heart gave a little tug at the beautiful eyes fixed on him, so large and so blue that they seemed to hold the whole sky. He also noticed that he didn't look as angry as yesterday. Or perhaps he was very good at hiding his feelings. Grantaire composed himself a friendly smile, and answered :

\- I am, yes. Hello, Enjolras.

\- Hello. I heard you playing, so I wondered....

\- If it was me, or the ghost of Christmas past ?

Enjolras frowned, and Grantaire remembered that he was supposed to be nice and friendly, not rile him up again by making fun of him. 

\- Sorry, he added. What can I do for you ?

\- Someone put a box of cookies and a very nice painting on my doorstep, and I was wondering if you knew something about it.

The urge to roll his eyes was stronger than ever, but he refrained heroically. 

\- Why yes. Do you enjoy cookies, at least ? Because I didn't really ask...

\- Oh, so it was you ? 

\- Yes ? I mean, I signed the note, so....

Enjolras frowned again, more perplexed that angry this time. 

\- Yes, but.... you.... didn't really introduce yourself. Your friend called you "R" that time, but I didn't know that it stood for "Grantaire", so...

This time, Grantaire facepalmed. Count on him to be so stupid he forgot to officially introduced himself. 

\- Sorry. I'm Grantaire. Pleased to meet you.

\- Pleased to meet you too. 

Grantaire tried not to smile too wildly. 

\- So, what do I owe the pleasure ? 

\- I heard the guitar. Were you playing ?

\- Ah yes, I felt like getting it out of storage and tickling the strings a little.

\- That was really great ! I didn't know you were such a good player !

He really needed to stop complimenting him, because Grantaire wasn't sure he was going to maintain his composure for long. 

\- It's been a while since I've played, but....

\- Do you think you could... come down, and we'll play ? 

What ? Did he hear right ? Was he....? This was a dream. This could only be a dream. Did Enjolras really ask him to come back ? But he was watching him with his beautiful eyes, and still looking expectantly up at him, and pinching himself didn't suddenly wake him up. That was reality. 

When the information reached his brain, Grantaire grabbed his guitar and, once again, ran all the way to Enjolras' door. As he knocked, he suddenly realized that he had bypassed shoes entirely. Too bad, Enjolras was already opening the door, his cat in his arms. Grantaire scratched the little head between the hair, refrained from doing the same to Enjolras. 

\- So, he said instead, I heard you wanted to play ? 

Enjolras lead him to the balcony again, where two cups of coffee were waiting, smoking quietly. Grantaire was both oddly touched by the welcoming gesture, and impressed at how Enjolras seemed to be sure that he would come done. But then again, maybe Bahorel was right and his crush _was_ visible from space. 

\- Anything you want to play ? Grantaire asked once he’d sat down on the rickety chair.

\- Can you play Wonderwall ?

\- Of course, I taught you. Together ?

Enjolras picked up his own instrument. He carefully placed his hands as Grantaire had shown him, tuned it a little, then turned to face him. Grantaire counted the rhythm as he had taught it, careful of not going too fast. 

It was weird, playing together like this. Enjolras did lack a bit in rhythm, forcing Grantaire to adjust, but nothing he couldn't deal with. He didn't dare sing at first, rather enjoying Enjolras' voice, but after the first verse, he just let himself get carried away. It was great, moving like this, in unison, almost like they were two halves of the same thing. Grantaire didn't want to read too much into the situation, but it was... exhilarating. It felt like flying. Like being, for a few seconds, at the top of the world, with him. 

It ended, because of course, it had to end, leaving Grantaire disoriented, and a little breathless. Probably the singing, of course. But Enjolras looked as affected as him, so maybe he hadn't imagined the connexion they shared for a minute or two. He tried to play it cool, picking at the keys to retune the strings. Enjolras watched him do with interest.

\- Can you play something else ? he asked suddenly.

\- Of course. What do you like ? 

\- Anything you want.

Anything ? Grantaire didn't have to pick his brain to find a song. Of course, that would be a very daring move, but Fortune favored the bold and all that. What did he risk, except a slap and being thrown over the balcony rail ? (probably not). He started playing the chords, softly at first, then seeing that Enjolras didn't run away, launched into the song.

Wise men say only fools rush in  
But I can't help falling in love with you...

It was a good thing he knew the words by heart, because Enjolras was so close their knees were brushing, and Grantaire had great trouble stopping himself from jumping each time he touched him. His heart was beating fast, so fast, and he was sure he could hear Enjolras', beating in tune. Or that may just be wishful thinking.

He didn't know how he got to the end of the song without running away or bungling anything. He was ready to jump out of his skin at each light touch. And as he lifted his head, it was to discover the beautiful blue eyes set on him, pinning him in place. He couldn't turn his head, he couldn't say anything, he could just look at him, and hope his eyes would do the talking. 

Suddenly, Jude jumped on his master's lap, almost knocking the guitar over, breaking the spell. Enjolras patted him as he kneading his pants, and asked :

\- This song...

\- Yes.... Did you like it ? 

\- A lot... It's very pretty.

\- Very, yes.

Perfect. When did they land in a potboiler and get turned into shy teenagers ? Grantaire would have slapped himself if he didn't fear looking like an idiot. He'd always hated that genre, so to suddenly find himself like this, babbling and muttering, incapable of speaking his mind... They'd never get there, not like that. Someone needed to take the reins of the conversation for something to happen, anything. He opened his mouth, but Enjolras beat him to it.

\- Did you choose it for a reason ?

Ah, short and to the point. Enjolras certainly didn't embarrass himself with subtleties. But now, he was expecting an answer. And this meant Grantaire needed to think very hard about the answer he was going to give, and quick. And Enjolras was still looking at him, so he needed to focus extra hard to not say anything stupid or incriminating. And he needed to think, and to think quickly, instead of being sidetracked like this.

\- I....

Great start, Grantaire. Now say something, or he's going to lose his patience, and maybe his temper. But what could he say ? That he really, really wanted to kiss him ? Hold his hand and the rest too ? Set his life at his feet ? Well, yes, this was what he wanted. But he couldn't say it, or Enjolras would run away. But he needed to say something now. Anything. 

\- I like it.

Oh _great_. This time, he hit his head against the guitar, lightly, of course. 

\- Is that the only reason ?

Grantaire took a deep breath, lifted his head. There they were. No going back now. 

\- I.... 

It didn't want to come. He was ready to say it, that was the best moment, the only moment, it was perfect, the atmosphere, the guitar, everything, and he couldn't say it. Count on him to be so stupid he couldn't confess his feelings.

A hand closed on his and squeezed gently. He looked down at their fingers, then back at Enjolras' face, who kept his eyes down.

\- I don't want your whole life, he said, but I could... take your hand, if you want.

Grantaire was a bit tempted to laugh, but he refrained. 

\- Would you, really ? He asked, very low.

\- I want to try, at least. If you want to.

He was looking at him, now, with such an open expression that Grantaire almost wanted to scream and tackle him. But no. Act like a normal person. He lifted the hand Enjolras wasn't holding, stroked his cheek, very slowly. His movements were measured, to give him all the time he needed to move back. But Enjolras didn't move back. Not when Grantaire bent down, very, very slowly to kiss him. It was soft, almost too much. Clumsy, too, like Enjolras wasn't used to being kissed. They just kept like this for a moment, barely moving. Not enough for Grantaire, he wanted more, way more, he wanted to ravish him, to leave him red, breathless, to hold him tight and never let go. But it was perfect none-the-less. 

They parted for breath, and because Grantaire's neck was starting to hurt. Enjolras was looking at him, his cheeks a little red, his smile a little shy. Positively adorable. Without letting go of Grantaire's hand, he moved his chair a little closer, until he could lean against his shoulder. It was not the most comfortable way to sit, but Grantaire wouldn't have let go for anything in the world. Still, he felt compelled to ask :

\- Are you sure you want this ? I mean.... 

Enjolras moved a little, and he wanted to hold him back, but he didn't step aside, not even a little.

\- What do you mean ?

\- Well... I'm me, and.... 

This time, Enjolras shifted to be able to look at him without leaving his shoulder.

\- Yes, I know. 

\- Are you sure this is what I want ? Because....

\- I am sure, yes. I know what I'm getting, and what I don't know, I will discover. And I'm sure I will like it. 

A very large emotion got stuck in Grantaire's throat, effectively cutting all the words he could have used. So he just held Enjolras' hand tighter, and twisted a little to be able to lay a kiss on his forehead. 

They sat like this for a moment in silence, watching the sparrows fly by. Grantaire's thumb was stroking the soft skin on Enjolras' hand, very gently. Suddenly, Enjolras asked :

\- It wasn't... too awkward, was it ? When I said... (He gestured vaguely with his free hand.) About your life, and....

\- It was, Grantaire chuckled, but that was adorable. It's very... you. 

Enjolras laughed a little. 

\- You better get used to it, it seems that I'm very clumsy at speaking my feelings. 

\- Don't worry, I like it a lot. 

\- Good. Now would you maybe play that song for me again ? 

Grantaire let go of Enjolras' hand with a hint of regret, and took his guitar back. Immediately, Enjolras settled back against his shoulder. Grantaire didn't know if he could play with someone against him like that, but he certainly wasn't going to ask him to move. Certainly not. He stroked the strings again, and started the song a second time. Enjolras was warm and heavy against him, and it was perfect. The notes started to fly above the roof, to tell everyone listening that they had finally found each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done ! That was a tiny little thing, that grew to be.... moderatly long. 
> 
> Songs are True Life Song by Jon Anderson, and Can't help falling in love with you, by Elvis Presley.


End file.
